


Fallen Through

by mresundance



Category: Bandom, Real Person Fiction, The Libertines
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-15
Updated: 2010-08-15
Packaged: 2017-10-11 02:58:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/107597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mresundance/pseuds/mresundance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Freedom/Tap'n Tin Gig . . . what did you expect?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fallen Through

The bravado had worn off a week ago, leaving them with their stale hangovers. No more reporters or tarts or nancy boys or scrubbers to keep company with and distract them, Pete and Carl were left with each other.

And there's only so much pretending a bloke can manage, Carl thought sullenly. He rubbed his stitched up chin as he lounged on his couch, beer and whisky at hand. The gig at Tap'n Tin, mythic still in his memory, throbbing with liquor and lust and sweat and vomit and Pete laughing, Pete whispering conspiritally in his ear, Pete tussling with him and giving him the come hither and let us go fuck look, always Pete, a siren like creature, that, between the booze and speed and the press of bodies and the notes ricocheting off the walls, had convinced Carl, even if just for a moment, the Albion was on course.

'Pigman's back,' Carl had laughed, lying on the floor with his chin bleeding. He had cupped Pete's cheek as he said those words. Pete had shushed him.

The door slammed and Carl looked up to a fever-eyed Pete, smelling like burnt plastic and shit. Carl sighed in exasperation, slamming the beer and whisky on the coffee table.

'Wot?' Pete snapped, half dazedly.

Carl ignored him and went to the bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

'Cunt,' he heard Pete shriek. And then the smashing of glass, probably the whisky and beer bottles, then dishes being thrown on the kitchen floor. Carl wedged a chair against his door and made sure his window was open before trying to go to sleep, still hearing Pete swear and break things. He spent the night blinking at the ceiling.

The morning found Pete on the couch, wan and limp, glass fragments in his shorn dark hair. Carl had sighed, fishing a broom out of the closet to try and sweep up the shattered dishes in his kitchen. The straw kept falling out, scattering over the floor and mingling with the glass. Pete grumbled something, rolled over, rubbing his eyes and blinking.

'I said "Good morning" Carl, is that any way to treat your old chum-'

Carl threw the broom at Pete. Pete squealed and ducked.

'Fuck you Peter.'

Pete picked the broom off the floor and flung it back at Carl.

'What's the matter with you?' he snapped, advancing on Carl. Carl swore and kicked a chair at him. Pete lunged and punched Carl in the gut. Carl grabbed his hair, digging his nails into Pete's scalp, and yanked. Pete howled and kicked Carl. They slammed into the floor, pummeling and gasping and kicking and punching and screaming, glass digging into their backs as they rolled around. Pete smashed Carl's chin and the stitches split, blood spraying the both of them.

A week ago at the gig he'd fallen off the bollard table and cut his chin open and Pete and fussed over him like he would bleed to death right there on the floor, in all the mess and clutter, people crying even, voices and sounds wild and high, almost the voices of angels in a chorus, Arcadia, Albion, Albion, Albion, his heart had hummed on that floor as his chin throbbed and bled.

'Shyte,' Pete said, easing off Carl. 'Carl –'

Carl shoved him, cupping his chin. Pete grabbed Carl, holding him while Carl struggled and beat at him with one hand.

'Fucker,' Carl sobbed. 'What's the matter with me? What's the matter with you, Peter Doherty? You fucker, you promised. You said you'd lay off the pipe 'long as I was around. You lying –' Carl struggled awhile longer before giving up, slumping exhausted in Pete's arms. Pete's weight pulling down at him.

Pete waited a moment. Gingerly he wiped at Carl's chin with his shirt. Carl flinched, turning away. Pete held his face in his hands and wiped the blood off his face, neck.

'Knock it off Pete,' Carl growled.

Pete shushed him, pressing his thumb to Carl's lips. Carl bristled. He wasn't going to let Peter seduce him, try to shag him into forgiving him again. 6 years, he glared as Pete trailed small kisses down his jaw, and you really think I'm still fucking stupid enough to be taken in by this act, you cunt? Carl rapped his knuckles in Pete's ribs, wincing as they were raw, throbbing, blooded. Pete smirked and started kissing Carl's hands, carefully.

'Pete, knock it off I said,' Carl yanked his hand away. Pete glared and bit Carl's thumb, hard, hard enough to draw blood. Carl yelped, cuffed Pete in the ear. Pete sucked hard at Carl's thumb, forcing his body over Carl's. He was lank, yes, but taller, with more strength in him than most would assume. Crushed to the floor, Carl kicked and flailed at him rather limply, helplessly.

'You asshole, knock it off,' Carl said again.

Pete kissed him, hard, biting at Carl's lips. Carl fought him, pulling back, then clashing teeth.

4 years ago they'd had their first kiss, in a run down park in Whitechapel. Small yellow flowers like stars, nodding around them. Carl had lain in Pete's lap, feeling wrapped in the warmth of Pete's thighs, the summer sun. Pete, trailing his fingers over Carl's jaw, had started to sing 'Another Girl, Another Planet', the words echoing in the hot summer air. Pete had stroked his hair, and Carl had shivered, thinking his touch hot enough to turn him golden with warmth. He had leaned into Carl, putting his mouth to his. Carl and felt a bloom of shock, realizing, oh, he's kissing me. He had kissed back lazily, the most natural thing in the world.

Carl had remembered that kiss, dizzy rush with the wine, at the Tap'n Tin, sharing the mic with Pete, lips nearly brushing again as they sang 'The Good Old Days'.

What did you expect? Carl thought to himself, shutting his eyes on his own tears as Pete unzipped his jeans. He turned Carl over and Carl sighed as Pete pushed inside him, stroking his sides under his ragged, filthy t-shirt, kissing his shoulders, murmuring into the back of his neck. How much he loved him, begging Carl, pleading, ah, love, 'twas just a lark, one time only, promise it'd never happen again, never, never, never, puncuntuated by kisses and thrusts. Carl pushed into the floor, listening to the clock in the kitchen tick and feeling his throat closing up with the rest of himself. Peter didn't notice. He finished with Carl and left him curled on the floor, went to the bathroom, Carl could hear him running water, felt the glass stuck in his palms, felt like one of his broken bottles.

Pete came out and looked at Carl lying on the floor.

'Wot? You look like someone's run you over with a car,' he said.

Carl laughed, a hoarse sound in the silent flat. He sat up, pulling his jeans on, shaking his head and glaring at Pete.

'I don't. I. Just get out Pete. Just out,' he managed.

Pete shrugged. 'You started it,' he said, 'chucking a broom at me,' he muttered, slamming the door behind him.

Carl sat, holding his knees, feeling the wound on his chin, shaking.


End file.
